Joe takes the dog to the service station;
feeds him donuts. Sometimes chocolate frosted.
Can’t poison this dog—he’s a Lab.
They hang out for awhile,
listening to the regulars hold forth from their
regular spots on oil-stained folding chairs
set at the edge of the bay. It’s always the
same old stories: the Mayor’s never going
to fix the potholes on Monroe Street;
the Laurel’s burgers just aren’t the same since
the Wingra Meat Market closed—15 years ago;
another narrow escape for Eddie last week
when his wife and Leona drove in
to refill their tanks one minute apart.
Joe doesn’t say much, being naturally quiet.
And, the dog? Well, being a dog,
he doesn’t say anything.
Poetry
Winter/Spring
2019
